


A True and Proper Sacrifice

by Snowgrouse



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Darkfic, M/M, Regeneration, Sickathon, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-15
Updated: 2007-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Time Lord blood tastes very much like human blood. Salty, metallic. One crucial difference, however, one that leaves a sharp aftertaste, is the artron energy clinging to the haemoglobin.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A True and Proper Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> The Master beds the Doctor for one last time, with extreme consequences. Written for the [Sickathon](http://amberite.livejournal.com/464501.html#cutid1), an amazing collection of well-written, fucked-up Doctor/Master regeneration porn. Thanks to sam42 and amberite for betaing.

Time Lord blood tastes very much like human blood. Salty, metallic. One crucial difference, however, one that leaves a sharp aftertaste, is the artron energy clinging to the haemoglobin.

He runs the knife across his tongue and discovers he's missed that taste. Even more than he's missed the sounds the Doctor makes when he's being fucked; the soft, despairing whimper when he's cut just underneath his left nipple, when the Master bends down to lick off the trail of red beads springing up on the broken skin.

His mind is humming with the Doctor's thoughts twining in his, overflowing with the Doctor's guilt and shared pleasure. Yet there's still that awful optimism, that mindless hope in there, a buzzing irritating insect at that, and the Master wants to pull its wings off, wants to feel it crushed under the weight of despair.

So he pushes the Doctor down, handcuffing him to the bed. That only makes the Doctor laugh and the colourful swirls of desire and delight grow brighter, leap higher. The Master forces himself to concentrate, just to touch the Doctor in all the right ways--there, stroking the soft skin behind his knees, rolling his hips in the way that allows deepest penetration, kissing the moans from the Doctor's mouth, staining his lips with blood, the artron energy electric upon their tongues. He growls into the Doctor's ear, starts stroking his cock where it's wet with the sweat of their bellies. His voice is gentle, a perfect imitation of the Doctor's honest lust, mirrored back into the Doctor's mind.

"That's it, Doctor," he whispers. "Let go. Let me feel it."

As the Doctor throws his head back, cuffs clinking, eyes closed, the Master digs out a different knife from the pocket of his discarded trousers, a knife meant for flaying, curved in the shape of a predator's claw. Gently, he drags the tip of the knife down the Doctor's chest all the way down to his crotch. There--that's the expression he has been waiting for, the ice-cold flow of utter terror raining into his mind, so soothing in this heat--the Doctor's pupils dilated, eyes completely black, the bright colours of his mind burning into darkness, sinking with the undertow of fear.

Two quick slashes later, the major arteries on the Doctor's inner thighs are spilling his lifeblood onto the sheets, the Doctor's mental and vocal screams sending a crackle of ecstasy through the Master's body, and he laughs and laughs, the bed soaked red underneath them and creaking with his violent thrusts, the Doctor's flesh growing colder around the Master's cock, his arousal creeping further up his spine with every spurt of blood. He discards the knife and touches the Doctor's chest, watches his head loll to the side, and feels the pulses flicker into silence--first the dextrocardial, then the sinistrocardial, stumbling and stopping underneath his hands.

He lays his head upon the Doctor's chest, the silence so beautiful it makes him ache. A moment of silence from the drums, from the Doctor's incessant prattling, and for a brief while the Master fantasises the Doctor's life is his last, that the body underneath him will stay cold forever, the chaos of battle running its course and fading away, the only sound in the world the Master's own carrion-crow laughter.

The lull of peace is broken all too quickly by swirls of light, and he groans and shields his eyes from the brightness, concentrating on the ripples from the Doctor's every cell vibrating, his body turning itself inside out, his muscles shuddering, all of it generating a flash of heat, enveloping both of them in its embrace. This is what he needs--even if it's burning--this is what he's missed for so many lifetimes, the artron energy lashing against his face, bathing him in sparkling vitality. The Doctor's eyes fly open and he gulps for air as if drowning, exhalations tingling as the Master kisses him hungrily, swallowing every glowing breath, so hot his teeth are hurting.

The Doctor's face expands and contracts, and the Master can hear bone cracking, watches as it knits itself into new features, and the Doctor stares at him, realisation and then panic palpable in his open, raw mind, and the Master bares his teeth in a grin, the smile not reaching his eyes. Briefly, he strokes the rapidly healing cuts on the Doctor's groin and raises one of the Doctor's legs on his shoulder, drawing in a sharp breath at the tightness of the Doctor's virgin arse, letting his hips find their own rhythm, impatient as the drumming grows deafeningly loud.

The Doctor moans--pain, pleasure, both, his eyes going supernova, the energy spiralling up to a peak, his hips lifting off the bed, the Master's knees trembling as the energy surges and refracts through their bodies, particle and wave searing every nerve. He holds himself back for a fraction of a second, teetering at the edge--and it's not just the drums anymore, the trumpets have joined in, the thunder of hoofbeats and cannons in their wake--tears glittering on the Doctor's lashes--the Vortex wave crests, breaks, dissipates, and he's falling into darkness, down and in and with the Doctor, and it's terrifying and beautiful, to shatter and to come together again, to ride the winds of Time Herself and emerge alive.

He laughs and sways in time with the drumbeat, quite surprised his balls are still aching with the need to come, that he's still moving inside the Doctor. That new face of his is a delight to observe; it's learning pain and humiliation so quickly. To teach the Doctor further, he straddles him and forces his cock into his mouth, makes him suck it clean, makes him lick the blood off his thighs. The disgust and revulsion coming off the Doctor in waves, the artron fizzing on the Master's cock like champagne, the sight of the new Doctor choking, insanity flashing in his eyes, his dribbling mouth and chin so moist when the Master is in to his balls--oh, _yes, there,_ _there_ \--the Master arches his back like a bow, and spurts his seed down the Doctor's throat, roaring, his laughter triumphant and cruel.

He doesn't look at the Doctor's face afterwards, concentrates on the sweetness of the drumming instead, cascades of new arpeggios licking their way up and down the beat now, singing through his veins, putting a spring in his step. He closes the door and doesn't look back, straightens his tie and drums the wall with his fingers as he passes.

A cigar and perhaps some cognac, he thinks. Perfect to wash victory down with.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with [an illustration.](http://snowgrouse.livejournal.com/1325236.html) NC-17, not worksafe, and extremely gory. Proceed with caution.


End file.
